


Not a Creature Could Stir (But a Stark)

by LeafOnTheWind



Series: A Visit From St. Stark [2]
Category: Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Santa Claus, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, But Tony doesn't know that, Christmas, Companion Piece, Dubious Consent, Kidnapping, Like It's Consensual, M/M, Magic, Magic Stasis, Masturbation, Not Beta Read, Obsessive Behavior, Obsessive Peter Parker, Oral Sex, POV Peter Parker, Porn With Plot, technically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:35:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28256274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeafOnTheWind/pseuds/LeafOnTheWind
Summary: When a man in an incredible mechanical suit breaks into his dorm on Christmas Eve, ravishes him in his sleep, and leaves a gift, all Peter knows is there's something fishy going on there, and he needs to know more.Especially since "Santa" is, well,hot.
Relationships: Brief Peter Parker/Original Male Character, Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Series: A Visit From St. Stark [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2043289
Comments: 75
Kudos: 178
Collections: ellie marvel fics - read





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> A companion piece to my SSBB Kinkmas fic. This is what happens when I try to write PWP; it turns into plot. Whoops! 
> 
> I'm putting out parts 1 & 2 today, hopefully fingers crossed the others will be out before the new year, at least, but don't hold me to that; I am truly terrible with schedules.
> 
> Enjoy!

Christmas has always been a magical time of year, for Peter.

The Parkers had been fairly well-off, and his parents were often busy, but Christmas was the one time of year they made sure to have clear no matter what. They would spend all of Christmas eve and day with him, playing, showering him with love.

Peter can barely remember those times, now. The Parkers may not have been rich, but when his parents died and his aunt and uncle took him in, he found he didn’t quite appreciate how much they _did_ have. Ben and May, unprepared for a young child, squeezed him into their one-bedroom apartment in Queens, and did the best they could to provide him with everything he needed. They always urged him to ask for what he wanted, and did their best to give him everything, but Peter was an observant child, and did his best to ask for as little as possible.

His first Christmas came with the two of them, and he was met with a tiny tree with homemade decorations and a few small presents; his aunt had knitted him a new, warm sweater, which would help with the sporadic heat, Ben had gotten him a brand new set of notebooks for school.

Santa got him a seasonal picture frame. Ben and May, though confused as to its origin, quickly filled it with a picture of Peter and his parents.

Both of them had taken the night off to spend with him, and while he knew how much it cost them, he couldn’t stop himself from bursting into tears.

As he grew older, the lonely-not-lonely Christmases got both better and worse. Peter’s memories of his parents started to fade, to be replaced with treasured moments of his new family.

Then Ben died, and it got worse.

Every Christmas was just a reminder of all the people he’d lost, year after year, and May could no longer afford to take any day, any _hour_ off that she could be working. She got a second job, worked longer hours. That first year after Ben’s death, she offered to take off, but the slightly pinched look around her eyes told Peter everything he needed to know.

“Don’t worry about me, May,” he grinned, knowing she could see straight through him. “Go on, give your coworkers a gift of the night off. Hey, maybe it’ll be a quiet night and you’ll be able to come home early!”

May twisted her face into a reluctant answering smile as she smoothed his curly hair. “You sure? I can call out, we could spend Christmas Eve together,” but she knew even before he shook his head in the negative what his answer would be. “My selfless boy, always too nice for your own good.”

She pressed a kiss to his hair and went to work.

That year… that year was the worst, with an empty home, a clanking heater, and a tiny present from Santa. He knows it’s May, of course, but it’s kind of nice to think of.

Santa Claus, giving gifts to all the children alike, rich or poor, gigantic families or just two people desperately clinging to their dead loved ones.

\--

The next year, Peter is fifteen, and on Christmas Day, he goes to the food bank as a volunteer.

Peter never really lost the magic of Christmas. It faded, to be sure, with every hardship that passed, every night he spent alone and cold in that one-bedroom apartment in Queens, but every gift from “Santa,” every kiss goodbye from May nurtured that small, withering light. Every Christmas, Peter took it with both hands and did his absolute best to fan it into a candle-light, at least, to give those around him who didn’t even have what he did. A loving Aunt, a consistent place to live. It made him feel like he was making a positive difference in their lives.

He never stopped volunteering, after that Christmas. It was a gift to others and a gift to himself.

\--

Peter is sixteen when he gets bitten, and starts a certain nighttime extracurricular.

\--

Peter is seventeen when he collapses face-first onto his bed, past midnight on Christmas Eve. He’d gotten a job on top of his specialty school, on top of his volunteering that he stalwartly refuses to scale back, especially this time of year, on top of his nighttime antics. That job had let him scrape together enough to help May out with some bills this time around _and_ a little something for them both for Christmas; she’d never let him help if she knew, but slipping some bills surreptitiously couldn’t go wrong.

He’s asleep before his head hits the pillow.

He wakes up tucked into his bed, his cheek warm with promise, though May isn’t home. She must’ve come home between shifts, or something.

_And lifted you? Tucked you in without you waking?_

Well, he was very tired.

\--

Peter is eighteen, and his hard work has paid off in a big way. He’d always been interested in science and bioengineering, and had worked hard to prepare for that as best he could, his only chance being a major scholarship, ideally with room and board and a stipend.

The chances of that were very low, but he applied everywhere he could, working double shifts when possible to pay for the application fees. He’d even sent off some applications to European schools, knowing that it would mean not seeing May nearly as much but that the tuitions would be significantly more attainable.

He’d succeeded beyond his wildest dreams when he was contacted by the Maria Stark Foundation, offering exactly that for him to go to MIT. They set him up with funding for school, fees, a private dorm room, a stipend for food and essentials, a professional internship.

If he sent part of his stipend to May, that’s none of their business.

The internship was everything he could’ve asked for, really. Even outside the experience he was getting (as a freshman at that!), he got to work with really cutting-edge research, they even got him his own company laptop. It was shiny and chrome, and definitely the most valuable thing he owned by far.

He spent a little bit of his next stipend on a motion-based security camera. No sense in risking even a shred of his unbelievable luck, this year.

Naturally, his luck ran out about a month into his first year. Typical.

His work was with radioactivity in small-scale life, from bacteria all the way up to spiders and scorpions, and it was _fascinating_. He felt a little bad for them, of course, but nothing he was working with was the slightest bit sentient, and this is research that could really help people. If it _happened_ to coincide with his own interest in how the hell he got his powers, all the better.

That didn’t help when he had to tell May he wouldn’t be coming home for Christmas.

And it doesn’t help him when he wakes up Christmas Day, an alert on his company laptop telling him there had been an intruder in the night.


	2. Eighteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter is eighteen when he wakes up to a peculiar video on his security camera.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of today's updates! Hope you enjoy!

_Unthinking, Tony has hiked up Peter’s oversized shirt, his hands stroking everywhere they can touch and it’s still not enough. He impatiently pulls Peter’s unresisting arms up and yanks the covering off, tossing it onto the pile of laundry across the room, peeling off his own overwarm undershirt as he does._

_Tony’s chest dwarfs Peter’s as he lays fully atop him, wrapping his now-bare arms around Peter’s waist and neck and pulling him in for a kiss. Peter’s mouth falls open to Tony’s plundering, the student perfectly pliant for him, loose and relaxed._

_He’s not sure how long he lays there pressed against Peter, mouthing at his collar and chest and always, always coming back to his perfect lips, pink and full and swollen. He knows he’s leaving marks; he’s not sure how Peter will explain that away but he knows that he will, but he will know, Tony will know that he exists outside of his workshop, at least for a little bit._

\--

Peter wakes on Christmas Day, his sleep-shirt gone and feeling strangely warm despite it. He’s given himself today to sleep in, no alarm, no obligations until at _least_ noon, maybe a video call with May if she manages to get a break at some point. Hopefully his gift got there in time.

He didn’t set an alarm, yet there’s a beeping from his phone and his laptop. His _company_ laptop. _Shit_ , did he miss a meeting or something?

The security footage plays, and it’s so much worse. Well, and better; he scours the footage and doesn’t see the man take anything, proprietary or not, but that doesn’t discount that a strange, fully-grown man in a mechanical Santa Claus suit had broken into his apartment, pulled off his shirt, and kissed him senseless while he was unconscious.

Campus Security, then.

\--

“What the hell do you mean, you can’t do anything? Someone broke into my dorm and _assaulted me_. I was _visibly unconscious_ the _entire time_ , how do I—”

“I’m sure this is frustrating for you, Mr. Parker, but given the time on the video, it’s clear this was doctored in some way, and cannot be admitted as evidence in any sort of case. Without any evidence, this is going to go nowhere. Who is this even meant to be?”

“I _don’t know_ , that’s why I _came here_ , to—look, if you can’t admit this as evidence, can you at least log a complaint? Up security in the area, check the cameras outside, hell, replace my window locks? They’ve been trouble since I got here!”

“We can certainly check the cameras, if nothing else.” The woman behind the desk offers him a sympathetic smile.

The cameras don’t show anything out of the ordinary, and he ends up replacing the locks on his window himself. Useless. He doesn’t really know why he expected differently, but he does try to think the best of people. It’s infuriating where there’s such clear evidence, and yet—and yet.

It looks like Peter will have to figure this out himself.

His focus may be on bioengineering and chemistry, but Peter’s no slouch in working with computers, either. Being friends with Ned for so long would make anyone learn through sheer osmosis. A basic image search with the video nets him exactly zilch, so he does his best to set up a reverse image search-and-scraper with the same, focusing on people in the MIT area. It isn’t really his wheelhouse, but it should serve decently; if he still doesn’t find anything, he’ll expand the area, and if absolutely necessary, ask Ned for help.

It’s a struggle, being here without him and MJ. If there’s one thing he misses about New York, it’s the two of them and May. He wonders if May got the gift he’d sent yet.

And… that reminds him. He’d left everything in his room as-is for security, but it’s clear they won’t be any help, so he might as well see what is it that that man left in the compartment.

The compartment was something he’d discovered about an hour into his stay in the room. His tenure as a vigilante made him paranoid, and while nobody _should_ know who he is or where he’s going to school, let alone his actual room, he spent that first hour combing through the room before he unpacked anything. The slight difference in the sound from knocking let him know there was something there, his enhanced eyesight let him see the seams, and some experimentation showed him how to open the nearly-perfect 3D puzzle that was the portion of his bedframe.

There was no dust, it being nearly airproof, but there were several rolled-up sheaves of writing stuffed in there. The first page made it clear it was the writing of a goddamn genius, a diary interspersed with schematics for robotics and snippets of code (in punch-card form, at that) that were beyond Peter’s comprehension. Reading it made him feel almost like a voyeur, so he’d stopped after a page or two, taking them carefully out and sealing them flat at the bottom of his drawer.

Paper stores better flat, after all, and this was the perfect place for his webshooters.

Now, of course, there’s more, and the thought sends Peter’s pulse into a tentative panic. This man—Santa, until he knows his name, Peter feels weird calling him The Man like a dramatic idiot—knew how to open it; there was no guessing, no fiddling uncertainty.

A quick spin, flick, and adjustment pops it open to reveal a small package that barely fits into the small square channel, wrapped in bright red and gold. Peter doesn’t hesitate to pull it out, more intent on what’s below it. His webshooters are still there. He allows himself a sigh of relief, pulling them out and checking they haven’t been damaged. They haven’t, thank goodness, but this clearly isn’t as secure as he’d thought.

Really, he should have known better; clearly at least one person knew how to open it, if the papers from before were any indication. Two, counting Santa.

…Okay, never mind, the man it is. Calling him Santa is too weird.

\--

It’s a few weeks, and Peter does end up having to call on Ned to his chagrin, but they manage to get a few positive matches with some digging. There’s an accountant in Missouri that had a 61% match, an Italian banker with a 68% match, and an inventor who apparently disappeared decades ago with a 98% match.

 _Tony Stark_.

When they compare the video footage with stills from the years before his disappearance, it’s undeniable, unless the man—Tony Stark, apparently—has a double running around, or a secret child somehow, or clone or something equally outlandish. Not 100% out of the realm of possibility, Peter’s seen too much to discount the more out-there options, especially since Tony doesn’t seem to have aged a day.

No, really. He hasn’t aged a day.

The last picture taken before he dropped off the face of the earth was a Christmas party he’d thrown forty-odd years ago in 1974, where a paparazzo had taken a picture of him stumbling off a small stage. Putting that image next to the video, the two subjects look _exactly_ the same, down to the strangely attractive facial hair, like he’d jumped right out of the photograph just to break into an undergrad’s dorm.

A little more digging gives the bones of his life. A genius, it seems, who graduated from MIT at age seventeen, only to follow it up with a few PhDs. Orphaned at twenty-one, no other living family; a family company he didn’t appear to run; a truly ridiculous number of patents, most of which were entirely unrelated to the inherited company, more focused on robotics, prosthetics, theoretical physics and molecular chemistry than weapons. A life of debauchery, only to disappear at one of the many, many parties he’d hosted that year. Eyewitnesses claim he was trashed, gave a speech, and stumbled off to the bathroom, never to return.

They never did find a body, nor any indication of where he might’ve gone. It was like he was there one moment and just…vanished.

When he was finally pronounced dead the requisite seven years after his disappearance, his will left nearly everything to the charity he’d created for his mother, the Maria Stark Foundation, though he’d left one mansion and what most people would consider small fortune to one Virginia Potts, his assistant at the time. Apparently it was quite the uproar that she’d gotten something like that, while a long-term business partner got just a single dollar.

By far, the Maria Stark Foundation got the lot. The same Maria Stark Foundation that funds Peter’s scholarship, along with so many others’. _That_ Maria Stark Foundation. Dammit, now he feels guilty for using his money when he’s, evidently, _alive_ still. Somehow.

He puts the footage on loop.

If… if this is Tony Stark, then Peter’s been living off his dime, his _personal_ funds that he’ll probably need if he decides to show himself again. How’s he been surviving? Where is he?

And why the hell did he break into his dorm, for goodness’ sake? To all appearances, he was there for Peter, to—his cheeks warm against his palm where he’s leaning on the desk. He’s not sure how, but it’s clear Tony—Tony? Tony.—isn’t hurting for money. He’d had that incredible mechanical suit, shining red and gold that moved like water to let Tony step out. The man that stepped out had been clean, well-groomed, if a bit windswept. Dashing, really, with his dark hair, his strong cheekbones, somehow both careful and careless. _Sprezzatura_ , Peter thinks he remembers reading sometime. How does that windswept look even work when he’d been encased in the suit? Was it more hat-hair than being—

Peter smacks his hands against his cheeks a few times. Keep it together, Parker. You can mull on how hot the guy who _broke into your room_ is later. The semester’s about to start.

He buckles down and gets to work.

\--

Peter doesn’t ever quite let the mystery of Tony Stark dissipate from his mind. It’s hard to, not when this is something that clearly involves him, that involves such a man as Tony. It’s purely curiosity, and personal safety, of course.

When he finally lets himself imagine what it would have been like to have Tony Stark on top of him, touching him like that awake, he comes embarrassingly quickly and tells himself that will be the only time.

It is by no means the last time.

\--

It’s spring before Peter thinks about Tony at any length again while the sun shines. Finals are over, he’s packing up his things to go home for the summer when Peter remembers the compartment, gingerly pulling his webshooters out once more. How _had_ Tony known how to open it with such ease? No hesitation, no testing or poking at parts. It’d make sense that he could figure it out, but he’d clearly used it before.

Actually… Tony had gone to MIT, hadn’t he?

Peter dives back into the records he’d done his best to forget about, but couldn’t bring to delete for a quick check into Tony’s records and yep, it looks like Peter was staying in his old room. Explains how he knew about the compartment, for sure; maybe he’d even been the one to put it there.

His curiosity satisfied, Peter turns to continue packing up, but hesitates. If he moves rooms… he might not get this same one back. The thought sits heavy and gently squirming in his gut beyond missing his floormates. He should be happy, shouldn’t he? It’s unlikely the man— _Tony—_ will be interested in tracking down the scrawny kid in his old room. He won’t have to worry about him breaking in like a weirdo next Christmas.

And yet… He doesn’t want to let this go.

Peter resolves to speak to the housing department on his way out and continues to pack. Maybe it’s entirely out of his control, anyway, he’ll find out.

His company laptop carefully stowed, Peter begins the task of sorting through his notes and exams, deciding what to keep and what to toss with _extreme_ prejudice. It’s dull, and he could probably just save them all and sort later, but May won’t be for a while yet, and he might as well get it out of the way.

Just as this thought is passing through, he notices some sheets at the bottom are significantly more yellowed, and remembers the notes he’d found at the start of the year.

Something clicks in Peter’s mind, and he leaps up from where he was sitting, remembering the video clear as day after the number of times he’d watched it, remembering his thought that Tony might’ve been the one to make the compartment and banging his head on a shelf in the process. That’s not nearly as important as the old scribbles at the bottom of the pile.

\--

The next day, Peter goes down to the MSF office in Boston. There’s another three days left before May arrives, so his only obligations are his volunteering, the frankly ridiculous amount of preparation for next semester, his internship, and his vigilante work. Practically nothing, really.

The woman at the desk sends him a plastic smile as he walks in, and Peter has to suppress a far more genuine one at the memory of helping her find her lost wedding ring a few weeks ago. It’s truly remarkable the extent to which people will ignore the movements of Spider-Man matching up so closely with those of Peter Parker.

“Hi Miss—” he glances at the plaque on her desk, “Smith, I’m Peter Parker, one of the students on scholarship from here, and, uh…” his backpack zips open and Peter shuffles around in there for the stack he _knows_ he has.

Her smile softens now she knows he’s not here to solicit, or to try to bully his way in or something. “Is there something wrong with your paperwork? Did everything go through alright?”

“Oh! Yeah, yeah, no, nothing like that, I think I—I think I might’ve found some papers written by Tony Stark? In my, uh, dorm room?”

A pause as Miss Smith parses through words that should make sense, but don’t quite. “In… in your dorm room.” Huh. “Papers by Tony Stark. Who disappeared _decades_ ago. Were in your dorm room.” She’s clearly skeptical, and you know, that’s fair.

“Uh, yes.” Peter’s finally found them, clipped together with a pair of binder clips and slipped into the second pocket, not the first. The pack hangs open behind him as he holds them out to the woman for inspection. Her hand reaches out, suspicion oozing from her every gesture, but she does take them. “I had a, uh, break-in on Christmas, and looked some stuff up, and it turns out he used my room while he went to MIT? And so, I remembered finding this c— _these_ papers hidden in the desk, but I hadn’t given them much thought, they look like a journal so I didn’t want to pry too much, but with—yeah.”

Miss Smith’s brow is furrowed in confusion. “Where did you say your room was again?”

“It’s Burton-Connor, 254D.” He bites his lip nervously. Did he miscalculate?

“This, if this is _real_ , is above my pay grade, I’m afraid. I’ll see if Ms. Potts has any room in her schedule; she’s the only one who could really verify this. If this _is_ real, we’re willing to pay you a decent amount for their donation to the Stark Collection.”

Peter takes a deep breath and holds it. Here goes. “Would it be possible for me to meet with Ms. Potts? If it’s real, I have some questions I’d like to ask.”

“…We’ll see. Your name was…?”

“Peter Parker. Ma’am. Miss.”

“Miss Smith is fine, dear. And is the number we have on file still accurate? Yes? Wonderful, we should be contacting you within the next—”

Miss Smith is cut off when the desk phone rings. “Ope, one moment please, Mr. Parker.” She picks up with a click. “Hello, Maria Stark Foundation, reception speaking, how may I help you? Oh, Ms.—I didn’t expect such a—yes of course, I’ll send him right up.”

She thrusts the sheaf, still bound however barely with the clips, back in his direction. “Apparently, Ms. Potts is free right now. Take these back, go up the stairs over there to the third floor, down the hall, the last door on the left. It should be fairly obvious, and feel free to ask anyone for directions if you need it. Any questions?”

Startled, Peter catches the documents mostly by instinct. “No, uh, that sounds fine, I—thank you!” he turns off and starts to run towards the stairwell, his still-open bag flopping behind him.

“No running, if you please, Mr. Parker!”

He slows to a _very_ swift walk.

\--

“Mr. Parker, is it? Please, come in.”

Ms. Potts is the epitome of professionalism.

He doesn’t know how he knows that, as all he’s done is enter and she’s said all of two sentences, but he’s already struck with the urge to bow, for some reason. Peter approaches her desk, nervous, and holds out the notes before standing awkwardly as she brings down a pair of auburn reading glasses. Her hair, still a soft red, is thinner than the images he’d found in the papers, her fingers thinner, though no less purposeful in her age.

“Sit.” He does automatically. The room is perfectly still, Peter holding his breath unconsciously, as Ms. Potts takes a look at what he’s brought, at first clearly skeptical, but growing almost wistful as she flips through the delicate papers before coming to a decision and laying them on her desk neatly, folding her slight hands over each other properly, her back ramrod straight.

“Where did you find these?”

“My dorm room. I—they were in a hidden compartment in the bedpost. I looked it up and found that my room was Tony—Mr. Stark’s room when he was a student at MIT, so I just… wanted to check. If my hunch was right.”

“Well, I can’t say definitively quite yet, not until they’re analyzed with a bit more finesse, but…” her expression relaxes, “I recognize the handwriting. And the manic energy about it, and these sketches… they look like early versions of his prosthetic line.” She shuffles through them once more, pulling out one specific sheet with a robotic skeleton laid out next to notes on a literature assignment. “I have a feeling your hunch was right on the money…?”

“Peter. Peter Parker.”

“Mr. Parker. If you would sign these over to the foundation for verification, we should be able to get back to you within a week. We’ll be giving you a receipt, of course; should these be real, it would be wonderful for them to be added to the collection.”

“The collection?”

“Yes, the Stark Collection. All the history belonging to Tony Stark before his _generous_ donation in his will. It goes back through World War I, has early prototypes and such. It reads a bit like an advertisement for Stark Industries, if it still existed, but this… there’s not much we have on Tony Stark’s college years. It would be much appreciated.”

“Of—of course! Just, just let me know. Please. Ma’am.” He didn’t plan on _keeping_ the notes, though… they were one of the only things linking him to Tony outside of the gift he still hadn’t unwrapped.

No, the Foundation could make better use of them. Ms. Potts smiles kindly at his response, still writing out a quick receipt; she has a well-earned reputation for being fair to a fault. Besides, the notes were more a means to an end; getting a meeting with Ms. Potts the goal for today’s impulsive _thing_. She’s the only first-hand account that’s anywhere in his area, and Peter _needs_ to know what happened that night.

“Just… I’ll tell you right now, I fully plan on donating these to the Foundation, it’s helped me immensely, there’s no _way_ I’d be able to afford MIT without it, let alone room and board, but there is one thing I’d like to ask in return.”

“If it is within my power, I will grant it.”

“I’d like… I’d like to hear about the night he disappeared. The party in 1974.”

This clearly catches her off-guard. “What?” she asks, incredulous.

Peter bites his lip nervously, before letting it pour out of his mouth. “I know it sounds crazy, but I—I think I saw him.”

Ms. Potts freezes, still slightly recoiled, and her eyes begin to narrow. “Saw him.”

“Y…yeah, um. See, I work with a partner of MSF, OsCorp, and a lot of what I work on is proprietary, so I set up a security camera, not really expecting anything to come of it, but I _really_ like this job, Ms. Potts, seriously, I can’t imagine a better match, so I really, really want to keep it, and keep everything safe for it. I’m on the second floor, sure, but someone might come into my room when I’m not there or something, _not_ that I’m saying anyone on my floor would do that, they’re all super cool though not as cool as Ned or MJ but still pretty cool. Right, so security cameras, and on Christmas Day—I stayed in the dorms for the holiday, I wanted to get ahead on some work for both class-work and work-work—on Christmas Day I saw that there was a new alert, and also my window was open and my—and that’s it. So I watched the footage, and someone came in, dark hair, weird facial hair, super cool robotic suit. They didn’t take anything, but they still _broke in_ so I went to campus security and they were _super_ useless, so I looked him up and—”

Ms. Potts has her face in her hands, rubbing at her temples when she cuts him off. “Mr. Parker. Are you telling me that you saw Tony Stark, hair still dark, break into your dorm room in a robotic suit, do nothing, and leave?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say he did _nothing_ ,” Peter flushes.

She takes a deep breath, clearly calming herself. “I will have these notes sent for review, Mr. Parker. I do not appreciate you putting on this… this _farce_ , however, and I will not tolerate it.”

“I do have footage though, I can just—”

“Mr. Parker, here is your receipt for the notes you have so generously provided us. Lan here will escort you out. You should be hearing back from us within a week. Good day, Mr. Parker.”

“Really, I can pr—”

“ _Good day_ , Mr. Parker. Do not bring this up again.”

“…Yes ma’am.”

\--

Peter is obsessed.

He knows this because Ned and MJ had sat him down near the end of August and told him, “Peter, you’re obsessed,” so yeah, that was pretty clear, and in hindsight, he _had_ been talking an awful lot about Tony Stark. They’d at least seen the video, so they knew it was almost certainly him (or an impersonator, they reminded him!) and didn’t try to make Peter completely stop, just… distract himself a little.

“Come on, Peter, we’re volunteering at the shelter today, come with us!”

“When was the last time you slept? The city isn’t going anywhere if you don’t superhero it up for _one night_ and get some sleep, my dude.”

“Dude, you _need_ to get out there and date. Maybe then you’ll stop obsessing over someone who’s either dead or way too old for you, anyway.”

But he didn’t _look_ too old, Peter thinks as he takes himself in hand for the third time this week. He looks young, just old enough to be mature. He thinks about the scratch of his facial hair, of the gentle strength in his arms, of the way he just couldn’t get enough of Peter, and he comes with a muffled moan into his pillow.

He’s staring at the ceiling of the room he fought tooth and nail to keep for this year, panting. He has unfinished classwork on the desk, an improvement to his webshooters to fabricate, but he’s already hardening again at the false memory of last Christmas and Tony Stark.

Okay, so maybe he’s obsessed.

He comes twice more that night.

 _Definitely_ a little obsessed.

\--

Ned and MJ are right, this isn’t healthy. It’s coming up on December and Peter still finds himself gravitating towards that video, however deeply on his drive he nests it. He flat-out refuses to get rid of it entirely, it’s proof that last year _happened_ , and he couldn’t bear it if he got rid of the file and Ms. Potts came asking about it, or if his friends claimed there was no such thing or something.

He’s not crazy or hallucinating, and that video is evidence.

That doesn’t mean Peter can’t try his best to stop thinking about Tony quite so often. There’s so much that he hasn’t done, his suitemates say. Come to this party, it’ll be fun! There’s pizza at that mixer next week. Have you even seen the campus outside of your room and classes?

Of course he has. It’s as Spider-Man, late at night, but he has.

He finally agrees to go to _one_ party. _One_ , then they’ll lay off a bit. They’re thrilled, and quickly decide he’s going to the holiday party the 20th.

…The party is not his scene, but it really grows on him the more he drinks. It’s something red and fruity, and people keep refilling his cup. When it starts to actually affect him, Peter’s eyes widen and he licks his lips. He thought he’d never get drunk, after the bite.

Peter has floaty memories from that night as if through a layer of gauze, continuous but disconnected from him. People yelling “Shots! Shots! Shots!,” dark hair and broad shoulders, messy kisses, a mouth with a goatee around his cock and his around the other’s, anger and someone storming out.

He finds out the man’s name was Derek. He’d called out Tony as he came.

A _clunk_ sounds as his head, already in pain from the hangover, collides with his desk. _Wow_ , that was _such_ a shitty thing to do to his first proper hookup. Or at all, really. God, this was a bad idea.

He sits up abruptly. Shit, did they use protection? A quick search of the trash bin reveals a pair of condom wrappers next to some stained rags and Peter heaves a sigh of relief. At least they weren’t _that_ far gone, even if—he crinkles his nose—it seems he has quite a few hickeys. Even he knows that’s rude.

Thing is, Peter has _no_ idea how to get Tony off his mind. It’s been almost a year, and still no idea where he came from, where he went. Ned’s work really only uncovered more questions, and campus security was obviously no help. The locks had been replaced ages ago by Peter, no help from them at all. Dicks.

He flops onto his bed, rolling to look up at the ceiling. He’d _tried_ to stop thinking about Tony. Not _hard_ , mind you, but he had tried.

It’s coming up on Christmas again.

…It’s coming up on Christmas again. He’d come on Christmas Eve, last year, left a gift and everything. Maybe… maybe he’d come back this year, too. A flush steals across Peter’s face as he undoes and reaches into his pants. Maybe this year, too…

Would he just kiss him again? Would he use Peter’s mouth? He sticks two of his fingers across his tongue, imagining the stocky calluses of a mechanical inventor like Tony in place of his own slightly scarred fingertips and moans before bringing them down between his legs. Maybe he’d fuck him, this time.

Peter comes, panting and desperate. He can’t fall asleep this year, he _needs_ to see Tony, to ask what the _hell_ is going on, to ravish him like he’d been fantasizing all year.

…He’ll leave a note, though. Just in case.

\--

It’s the night before Christmas, and Peter places the note with his phone number, his name, all the things he’s found out in the compartment. It could’ve gone on the desk, or something, but the temptation of the compartment is too great, so folded up and into the bedframe it goes.

Peter tries to distract himself with his work, but he’s not willing to go on patrol and miss him.

The clock ticks later and later until Peter’s eyes are drooping shut even with his greatest efforts, so he unlocks his shiny new window locks and sets the camera to record, just in case. His bed is a temptation he wants to resist, but doesn’t; he makes his way to the bed, propping himself up in the corner in an effort to stave off sleep just a little longer. The thought of meeting Tony, inviting him to lay next to him is _so_ enticing, and even as sleepy as he is, Peter begins to palm his cock, half-hard, and takes off his shirt. It’s too warm, anyway.

Funny, isn’t it, how it’s so easy to stay up, reading, working, talking, most nights, but something about Christmas Eve always puts Peter

Right

To

Sleep.

A snore rings through the room, and there is a great bang at the window that nobody seems to hear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited 12/23/20; minor changes to language


	3. Nineteen Pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter is nineteen when he gets academic probation and Pepper Potts gets free labor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was getting a bit long, so I decided to split it into two.

_Higher up, his fingers tangle in Peter’s curls, his grip tightening to support his head as he tilts Peter’s face up towards him and swoops in for a kiss, teeth clacking, sucking and biting at his soft lips, so pliant and sweet. “Mine,” he growls. He wants to see those lips swollen and bruised, he wants to hear Peter’s breath hitch in pants and moans._

_-_

_“Oh, Peter…”_

_A sigh leaves Peter’s swollen lips and his hips roll the smallest amount. Tony gasps, his eyes alight with pleasure. “Oh Pete,” he licks his lips, “I’ll make you dream of me.” He crawls down Peter’s torso once more, this time with a mission, dragging his pants and briefs down together and tossing them off the bed. “You won’t remember who you’re dreaming of but you’ll dream of me and only me until next year, and then I’ll do it again then, and every year until you know who I am in your damned soul.”_

_-_

_He grasps Peter’s cock and gives it a few strokes, pulling another sigh from the man. “Don’t worry, Pete,” he says, gleeful. “I’ve barely gotten started.”_

\--

The dawning sun peeks through his window as Peter blinks himself to wakefulness. Resisting the pull of the real world, he pulls his pillow in to smother his face in. He was having such a wonderful dream…

Peter shifts a little. Hm. He was _definitely_ wearing more clothes and, as he notes when he moves his legs against each other, he’s suspiciously slick down there. A glance shows his pants across the room in his laundry pile, hickeys peppering his torso and one arm, his blankets pushed down to the bottom of the bed despite the draft coming in from the window—it’s closed, but there’s a new crack, that’ll be fun to explain away—and what looks to be quite a bit of come long since soaked into his sheets beside him.

He thoughtlessly dips his fingers into the mess, bringing it to his lips, his eyes closing automatically as he takes it in with a smile and a moan.

Either he had a very, _very_ good dream, or he’d been visited in the night by Tony and left. He’s not sure which would be worse, but he _does_ know he should find out.

With a grunt of effort, Peter heaves himself to a sitting position, bending down to pick up his phone from where it had fallen. _6:40AM_ stares up at him in glowing numbers, and Peter feels himself sag, dragging his off hand down his face. That is _far_ too early, but he’s awake already anyway, so he might as well check the camera again.

His phone swipes open and the app opens with the expected alert. Peter clicks to view, and—oh, fuck, is it possible to feel jealous of yourself?

Peter should feel violated, he should—should doesn’t matter, all he feels is horny, watching Tony use him like this, get so _possessive_ over him. There’s no fabric in the way, and Peter grasps his already-hard cock helplessly at the sight. It’s almost disappointing when he sees Tony fucking his thighs rather than his ass. However much he wants to be awake for it he wants Tony _more_ ; Peter wants Tony to _know_ how much Peter wants him, wants to run his fingers through Tony’s hair as he slams into him properly, wants to gag on his cock and call him Daddy Christmas just to see how he’d react.

The video loops again. God, and that suit, opening up so beautifully…

The video loops again. And again.

Tony called him nice in the video, but he doesn’t feel very _nice_ as he spills yet more come into the puddle on his bed, moaning out, “ _Tony…!_ ”

Heaving breaths slow after his release, and Peter lays back down, his forearm blocking the slowly-increasing light.

 _Fuck_ , he needs to get laid.

No, not get laid. He needs Tony.

“Why do I _always_ go for the unavailable ones?!”

\--

Peter is a fixer. He sees something wrong, he does everything in his power to make it right. “With great power, comes great responsibility,” and all. This situation might not _quite_ be what Ben had meant, but the same principle applies.

Tony is unavailable. Peter wants Tony, so he’ll _make him available_.

His online sources had run out early the previous year, but he goes over them again anyway, combing through press releases and speculative articles until his eyelids feel like sandpaper. The library has some old periodicals he doesn’t think he’s gone through, but there’s no new information.

On certain things, everyone seems to agree; Tony had been a party person, he’d thrown a holiday party, he’d disappeared around midnight after a drunken speech, that’s that. There was nobody there when he disappeared, though many, many partygoers had spoken to the press at the time, trying for their ten minutes of fame.

But there _has_ to be something he’s missing, it’s… this whole situation is impossible, but so is Dr. Strange, so is Thor. Peter huffs, dissatisfied. At least his powers have _science_ behind them. Weird science that he doesn’t 100% understand yet, but science that he’s studying, that he’s working on.

“Oi, Parker, anyone home there?” his supervisor calls out, snapping in front of his glazed eyes and preventing him from knocking over one of his cultures.

“S-sorry, Gemma!” He frantically pushes it away from the edge and back into the neat order he’d had his samples in this morning. Or this week, at least, probably.

“Is everything alright, Parker? You haven’t been yourself lately. Are we working you too hard?”

“No!! No, no it’s fine, just—just a little personal trouble, that’s all. I’m good!”

Gemma frowns. “Well, let me know if you need anything, arright? You do good work, kid, we’d hate to lose you to carelessness or burnout.”

“Yeah, really, sorry, I’ll do better.”

She taps her foot. “See that you do. If you need a break, take a break; a lab isn’t the place for daydreaming.”

“Don’t worry, I sat through the safety seminar, same as everyone else. I’m fine, really.”

Gemma raises an eyebrow, doubtful, but willing to let it go for now. Almost. “If you want to talk, I’m—”

“I’m _fine_ , Gemma!” he laughs back.

He will be, at least, once he figures it all out. For now, he’ll have to settle for this.

\--

“Wait, _what_?”

“What?”

“Dude, you said you were _stoked_ about this job. Is there something wrong? Too much with the vigilantism? I remember you said it picks up in the spring, but—”

“Yeah, I am stoked, I still am, it just—work takes a lot of time, you know?”

“I mean you seemed to handle it last year. Are they giving you more to do or something?”

“I was handling it last year, and I’m handling it now, okay? God, you’re as bad as Ned. Can you two back off for one second?”

“Peter, we’re just worried about you, you seem… off.”

“There’s nothing to worry about, okay? I’m handling it. It’s _great_.”

“Okay, if it’s not the job, what is it? You _can’t_ tell us you’re sleeping well with bags as big as the grand canyon hanging out there.”

“MJ, have I ever gotten a good night’s sleep _ever_ in the time that you’ve known me?”

“I mean, fair, but—”

“Drop it. Please. I’m handling it. Can you just—tell me about what’s going on back in the city. Have you seen Ned lately? May? How’re your classes?”

“…We _will_ be revisiting this, Peter.”

“Uh-huh. Noted. Your classes, MJ? You murdered that Psych professor yet?”

“Maybe I should, if it’d get a certain masked hero to visit his hometown again. We miss you, tiger.”

“…I miss you too.”

\--

Peter is not handling it.

Or, well, he thought he was doing _okay_ , at least. If he spends less time on his homework than he used to, it’s because he’s getting used to the courseload; if he spends more nights swinging about and more at the library reading documents he’s already memorized, it’s because he needs… something, he doesn’t know, it’s all excuses anyway, even to himself, he knows that.

Fortunately for Gemma, Peter doesn’t think too hard about Tony at OsCorp, not after he’d nearly screwed up three months of work with that sample, but it’s still there in the back of his mind.

Then it’s after midterms, and he gets a letter from the Maria Stark Foundation. His GPA has dropped below the acceptable threshold for his scholarship—a 3.8, it’s absurd—and they want to speak to him in person, hear his side of what’s going on, before making any changes to his funding.

Shit.

\--

You know what, this is an opportunity!

Peter isn’t quite sure how, but he manages to charm the receptionist into getting him another appointment with Ms. Potts instead of his normal representative. Jared is great and all, but he doesn’t have what Peter needs.

“Mr. Parker,” she begins, “I thought I told you not to show up here again.”

“Well, technically, ma’am, you told me not to bring up Tony again.”

“…So I did. In that case… it appears you’re here to discuss your academic probation. Now tell me why on Earth _I_ am the one handling this and not your representative.”

“Ah, that is 100% my fault, not Sharon’s _at all_ , but I may have convinced her to shuffle things around and—really, that’s not important, I don’t think.”

“Mr. Parker…” She lets out a sigh, rubbing her temples. “Very well, let’s get this over with. You have always been a promising young man, and the Maria Stark Foundation is committed to helping its beneficiaries succeed. Tell me why, in your own words, _this_ ,” a vague gesture to her monitor, “is happening. Please, _please_ tell me that this is not more about… about Tony.”

Seeing her expression, as hard and as fragile as porcelain, Peter doubts himself for a moment. Is this really right, to keep digging up something that is clearly so painful for her, someone who is doing so much to help so many people?

The thought of hurting her, especially if this ends up going nowhere, sits heavily in his gut; the thought of letting this, _Tony_ , go now, after this last Christmas… It’s… it’s not going to happen. Not acceptable.

“I’ve decoded the notes, Ms. Potts.” The woman is already pulling back, her eyes pinching at the edges, and Peter speeds up, feverish. “I can do—I know there are journals that he kept, in the collection when I visited, I _know_ I can decode those too if—if I’m given access. All I need to know is what you saw that night. Just that. Please.”

“Peter, this meeting is about your academic probation. Don’t—don’t you _dare_ tell me such lies.”

“It’s not a lie, I—” Peter breaks off to rifle through his bag, near to wearing through. “Here. The translation of his notes that I donated, and the, the pages of his journals that were on display. I don’t—I can’t just give the key, it changes from page to page, mixing what I think is a personal shorthand and one of the Kryptos methods with a proto-RSA, and…” he braces himself for the backlash he might be about to endure, “and it’s the only leverage I have. I _have_ to know. _Please._ ”

It is a long minute before Ms. Potts moves, leaning onto her desk, an expression of stone. “Let me make something perfectly clear to you, Mr. Parker. This is not a joke, or—or a _game_ to me, this is my _life_. I have spent my entire career building this Foundation from a vanity project to something that does good, _real_ good, and I do not appreciate you encroaching on my _past_ , a part of it that is particularly painful, as I’m sure you well know. No, don’t talk. Mr. Parker, you are on academic probation right now, from what I can tell because of this cryptography work you’ve been doing. This will cease immediately.”

“But I—”

“I said, it will cease _immediately_. You will get your GPA back up to spec. Your work with this clearly shows you are capable of that and much more. I expect that and _glowing_ reviews from your manager at OsCorp by the end of the spring term. Once that is done… once that is done, come back to me again, and I will let you know everything I do in return for decoding the journals. Is that understood?”

“Y-yes, ma’am. Crystal clear. GPA, glowing review. You won’t be sorry you’re doing this.”

“See that I am not.” She takes a breath to center herself. “I will let Jared know what to expect, and to direct you to me should you succeed. And Peter…” her nails tap rhythmically on the table. “I expect great things from you. Don’t disappoint me.”

\--

The rest of the semester is as much a blur as the first half. With the Ms. Potts’ promise in mind, it’s much easier to focus on schoolwork with a goal clear in sight, and his GPA is propelled back to its usual near-perfect. With Gemma having nothing but praise in his quarterly review, Jared sets up that meeting.

Peter nearly cries when he learns that she only really knows the things he’s already managed to unearth himself.

“How is that possible?” he whimpers.

“However much I wish now that I’d spent more time with him, I was not next to him every second of every day. He was a hard person to like, Mr. Parker.”

“…You promised this in return for my success.”

“Your success also earned you the right to _keep attending university_.”

“Really? Nothing else?”

“Nothing else.”

“What… what about the previous Christmas? Anything unusual, or—or memorable?”

“I’m sorry to say no. Well, nothing more memorable than the usual antics he’d get up to during the holidays.” Ms. Potts shifts in her seat, heaving a sigh. “Mr. Stark was a very sad man, Mr. Parker, and that time of year tended to bring out the worst in him. I _can_ say that he kept very meticulous journals, even—well, perhaps _especially_ when he was drunk. He had so many of his breakthroughs like that, rediscovered after reading notes from the nights before.

“I understand if you are… mad at me, or the Foundation as a whole. Should you choose not to decode them, that is well within your rights. However, I will also say that this those journals are the only source you’ll ever find closer than I was.”

Tony’s face, moaning in ecstasy, flashed through his mind. Rejecting this was never a question.

“…When can I start?”


	4. Nineteen Pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter is nineteen and he is falling apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for attempted sexual assault at the very end. It's stopped very early on in the process, but it is clearly shooting in that direction.
> 
> Part 2 of 2 of Nineteen.

_“Wait for me, Peter,” he impassions, plaintive, “I’ll see you next year. And please… be Nice.”_

\--

Summer break left Peter plenty of time for the journals around the shelter and Spider-Man and OsCorp. May had bugged him into visiting for two weeks near the beginning, and yeah, he definitely felt a twinge of guilt with how he’d been ignoring her lately, but… no, there’s no but. She’s been so good to him his entire life, supporting him when she had no real obligation to, especially after Ben died.

He spent a week trying and failing to stop thinking about those journals up north, just waiting for him to decode them. He spent another three days stopping himself from making up an excuse to return early, get a start on those journals. He spent one day travelling back to Boston after claiming a work emergency had come up in the lab, and about three hours feeling bad about the decision.

Those three hours were how long it took him to get official permission to access the journals and a chaperone to accompany him while he worked in the storage area.

\--

_September 17, 1962_

_Jarvis asked me to start keeping journals. It’s a complete waste of time, but he asked me to, so I’ll try. He says it’ll be a “valuable record of my ascension to greatness,” or something, like I’m not already pretty great. ~~Who else built an engine at six, huh? Who else got into MIT at fifteen? Just because dad still thinks I’m a worthless waste of space doesn’t mean I’m not~~ Just because I don’t want to make my greatness all about his doesn’t mean I’m worthless. Bastard. ~~Idiot~~ ~~Dummy~~ Dum-E? Consider later_

_I don’t want all my thoughts on paper for anyone to read, so I read up on cryptography last night. We’ll see how this goes._

_\--_

_May 17, 1964_

_Graduated today with Rhodey. Tried to convince him one last time not to enroll in the fucking air force, but he’s set on it. ~~Why does he want to fight in a useless war for a country that doesn’t even~~ _

_That asshole didn’t even come. Good, I’d’ve given him another scandal to focus on after the march last year when I’d punch him in his racist fucking face. God knows he’d disown me if he knew what I’d been up to here. I’d say I’d miss it, but I’m coming back in the fall for another degree. I think I’ll go for aerospace engineering this time. They say NASA’s shooting for a man on the moon; let’s go to Mars._

_\--_

_December 19, 1968_

_Dad’s finally dead. He took mom with him. Drunk driving. Jarvis is heading over to bring me to the wake. Thank god that bastard didn’t steal him and Ana away too._

_-_

_He hated me. Why the fuck am I the heir to it all? I don’t want it, he never thought I was worth the time or effort to parent, clearly. I’m a massive fuck-up. ~~I can’t~~ ~~I don’t deserve~~ ~~want~~ ~~Why did he~~_

_Fuck Stark Industries. Obie can run it if he cares that much. Maybe then I’ll be able to work on what I fucking want to without corporate assholes butting in every two seconds._

_\--_

There’s a lot that Peter learns in those weeks of perusing the journals.

First and foremost, Tony Stark was— _is—_ a genius. Schematics of something Peter recognizes as an early form of aquaponics fills half a page, along with self-constructing buildings. Simple ones, but still far more advanced than anything Peter knows about, even now. Peter blushes at the layout of a sex toy, and resolves not to look too closely at that one. (He makes it the following week.) Prosthetics, robotic servants, programming that, when transferred over from freaking punch-cards of all things to a proper computer, _talks_ to him, asks where Tony went.

Jerking off when he knows a fully-formed _AI_ is now living in his computer is… awkward. Especially when the toy Tony designed had been _amazing_ , a prostate massage and a cock ring combined and automatically reactive to his body’s writhing. Peter whited out when he used _that_ the first time.

It’s impossible for him to understand why Obie (Obadiah Stane, probably) could _possibly_ think that all these inventions, these incredible creations are useless. Sure, SI used to be all weapons all the time before Howard Stark’s death, but the aquaponics alone could’ve jump-started agricultural reform with how low-maintenance this one was. And the arc reactor he’d miniaturized? He’s not even able to find a patent on that one. Tony took that one to his not-grave.

He could see Obadiah becoming frustrated as the years passed, pushing Tony harder and harder to stop making “frivolous” inventions, “pointless” innovations that could have changed the direction of technological development as a whole in the ‘70s; he could see Tony becoming frustrated in turn as Obadiah seemingly willfully ignored all the good that could be done. He’d shoot over a more advanced bomb occasionally to appease the board, a more precise gun, then turn right back to what could have been changing the world with more publicity.

Tony found Pepper Potts, and pulled away from “Obie” more and more, and Peter _finally_ gets to Christmas of 1973.

\--

_December 26 th, 1973_

_Not sure what happened last night. Obie came to bug me again, naturally. He’s pissed I’m still working on the arc reactor instead of the fucking targeting system the board wants._

_I’m just trying to change the fucking world here. God, I wish they’d just let me be. I love the spotlight, but sometimes seventy uninterrupted hours in the lab are just what the doctor ordered. It’s me, I’m the doctorate, and I’m ordering it starting now. Had a thought on how to improve the reactor some more, maybe even microphase it, three gigawatts in the palm of your hand._

_Obie’d still call it useless. No imagination, seriously. And they call my stuff useless._

_Went back to work, but it was kind of weird; I’ve sworn off hallucinogens after last year, yet I swear I saw Howard’s German friend from the SSR last night. He’s been dead for years, I never even met the man. Wouldn’t’ve recognized him if it weren’t for the photos. Said some weird shit about Christmas and having a private lab, I think, though that’s hardly a draw for me. I can already keep people out if I don’t want them._

_I do wish Obie’d forget where my lab is occasionally. Like now. And most of the time. All of the time. God knows I love him, but he is a fucking gnat hovering about sometimes._

_It probably wasn’t him, probably just been an old man crashing a certified Tony Stark party. Can’t blame him, my parties_ are _the best. He looked ready to keel over, though; hopefully didn’t go too hard on the coke. Wasn’t dead on the floor when Pepp woke me up, at least, so he’s probably fine, or the cleaners got him. I’m sure someone would’ve told me by now if someone’d died. Pepper would have, if only to deliver another lecture, “_ Tony, be more responsible,” “Tony, that’s not healthy,” “Tony, someone else was irresponsible and now you have another inch-thick stack of paperwork in triplicate,” _yeah, yeah. Tell me something I don’t know._

_…I don’t know how she puts up with me. Must be a masochist or something._

\--

Peter leans back and rubs at his tired eyes. That’s… interesting, and the only truly new information he’d gotten in months. Not that Obadiah was bugging him, that came up every other week alongside a self-depricating comment and Pepper Potts berating him for something or other.

A German man from the SSR. From what Peter knows, which is admittedly not much, Howard Stark worked on top-secret projects in World War II, so any German friend of his was probably part of Operation Paperclip.

\--

It’s Erskine, Peter’s sure of it. Erskine, who’d himself disappeared decades before Tony had, whose body and that of his wife had shown up a _single day_ after Tony’s disappearance, fresh as death.

There has to be something there, there is _no way_ that the hallucination of Erskine Tony’d had exactly one year prior to his disappearance on Christmas wasn’t related to their _reappearance_. Maybe it was an exchange, or a curse, or… Peter’s not sure.

If there’s one thing he’s learned from being Spider-Man, it’s that nothing makes sense and the points don’t matter. Hell, it’s partially why he’d chosen this major; magic is just science you don’t understand yet, and he’d love to be the one to discover a magical gene, or the mechanism by which the Scarlet Witch’s power works.

Or discover that Santa is real, apparently, and can be replaced, if his hunch is true.

His hunches are rarely wrong.

\--

Peter gasps as his nails scrape along his ribcage, as fingers pull at his hair.

“ _Mine,” Tony growls_ on slightly blurry footage.

\--

…Did Erskine’s wife disappear the same time he did?

She did.

Peter feels the pieces settle into place and groans into his hands. _Mrs. Claus_. But Tony wasn’t married.

He searches through disappearances that year, that _day_ , and finds ten options in the US. Eight were nowhere that Tony had visited the year prior if his journals are to be believed, and both the others were found less than a week later, one alive, one less fortunate.

His phone vibrates on the table beside him; it’s MJ. With a grunt of frustration, he silences his phone, leaving it to ring itself to voicemail.

\--

The toy slides between his thighs, brushing up against his balls and the underside of his cock at every pass, as he imagines Tony there with him, fucking his thighs the way he did so many months ago.

_“I’ll make you dream of me…”_

\--

So nobody had disappeared with Tony, at least not in the US. What about Erskine, were there others that day? Children, relatives, close friends, distant strangers who’d shared a cup of coffee in the lobby one day? Records are a lot more spotty that far back, especially for secretive wartime science initiatives, and Peter can’t get a definitive answer there without turning back the clock. If he had time control, he wouldn’t be doing— _this_ , this frustrating search that feels like grasping at the night sky, he’d have already gone back to 1973 or ’74 and taken Tony for himself.

He finishes translating the journals, and finds nothing more interesting. It is infinitely more understandable why he left everything to Ms. Potts and the MSF, though, with how he wrote about Obadiah. He clearly didn’t appreciate the absolute genius he had at his beck and call for _years_ , he didn’t deserve anything.

He feels like crying, like he’s closer than ever to finding the key to this whole thing, so close he can _taste it_ but can’t quite grasp the flavor. There’s something missing still, something—

\--

He pushes a third finger into himself just a little too early, needing that burning stretch, that hint of pain to keep him grounded-not-grounded. God, he needs more, it’s not enough, it’s never _enough_ without him. He curls his other hand around the base of his cock, forestalling his orgasm.

He’d bet Tony would want to tease him.

_“Don’t worry, Pete, I’ve barely gotten started.”_

\--

He’s called in for academic probation again, but one look to Ms. Potts, still grateful for the journals and somehow newly in mourning from it, has the requirement waived.

\--

The shelter calls him, concerned. It’s been a few weeks, when he hasn’t missed a single week in the fifteen months he’s been there. He’s busy with school and work, he says.

\--

May calls, saying MJ and Ned have contacted her, worried about him; he reassures her it’s just stress from classes. MIT is pretty rough, after all.

Later that day, he crushes a door handle. He stares at the injury consideringly, letting the blood drip to the floor, and feels his heart begin to settle. Anything.

He goes to the Harvard med school for treatment he doesn’t need.

\--

Peter turns the vibrations higher, grasps his throat just a little bit tighter until he begins to see spots in his vision, but it isn’t tight enough, his fingers aren’t thick enough, aren’t pressing down hard enough, but he’s afraid of going too far with his strength. He remembers Tony’s face as he came between Peter’s thighs— _Peter did that—_ and it’s one last pull on his cock that tips him over the edge, choking out a cry as he comes, panting like he’d just run a supermarathon. He can feel his ass pulsating around the vibrator he’s using, worn and sore, but doesn’t pull it out or turn it off, letting the overstimulation bring him to the edge between pleasure and pain.

_“Is this what you wanted, Peter? For me to be jealous?”_

He wants it to be Tony.

_“Wait for me, Peter.”_

“I will, Tony,” Peter gasps, gulping air like a man drowning. “Anything for you.”

\--

“I _don’t want to go out, Ned!_ ”

“Peter, we haven’t seen you in _literal months_ , came out to visit you because you haven’t even visited _May_ for longer than a week since last year, we are spending time together if it _kills us_. Now I have a scale model of the Millennium Falcon we can assemble together, or MJ has contacts with a fraternity nearby that’s throwing a blowout for people who are staying for break. Which is it gonna be, hm?”

At least if it’s a party, Peter might be able to sneak out without them noticing, come back to his dorm in time. Nobody disappeared with Tony Stark, so he has nobody with him, wherever he is. That leaves a slot open for Peter, one he will _not_ squander. He’ll visit again, he _knows_ he wills, and with this—he grips a syringe of adrenaline he’d stolen from the hospital, far more than would kill a normal person, in a white-knuckled fist—he’ll be able to talk to him. _Finally._

It’s stupid, he knows. It’s unhealthy, he knows. Peter. Doesn’t. Care. _Anything_ for him.

But first he needs to go to this _fucking_ party, this waste of time, when he could be in his dorm preparing himself. God, he wishes they’d just let him be.

They want him to go to a party on fucking Christmas Eve? Fine. He’ll party so hard they won’t be able to deny it and _go_.

Peter takes one step into the frat house and steals someone’s drink as he passes. It tastes like shit, but he downs it, ignoring the aggravated yelling behind him. He does it again, and again, finds himself with a shot glass full of an amber liquid so he downs it, takes a red solo cup from a woman offering hers and downs it.

And downs it, and downs it, and downs it.

He has no idea where MJ and Ned are, though he’s sure he’s talked to them—yelled at them? Yelled at someone else? He’s sure there was yelling involved at some point, though that might just be because of the sheer volume of the place.

The dance floor is sweaty and sticky and someone is grinding up against him, but Peter doesn’t notice. The lights are dim, and there’s shouting around him and he can’t hear anything over the din.

Someone hands him a cup and he downs it.

What time is it? It’s dark out, but it’s winter, it could be 4PM and it’d be dark out.

“What time is it?” he shouts into the room.

A chorus of replies gets shouted back, both real times and things like “Adventure time!” or “Wildcats!” which gets a boo. “Eleven,” is breathed into his ear, and he shoots a smile at the speaker, one of many, many people he doesn’t know here, nor does he particularly care to change that.

“Thanks,” he replies. It’s been an hour, that counts as attending, and Peter moves towards the door unsteadily. Once out of the crushing mass of bodies, he feels the world tilt and finds himself on a bench by the door.

“Where do you live?”

“It’s—it’s, uh”

“Here, where’s—” Peter feels hands rummaging in his pockets. “If your ID is up to date I know where that is. Got any roommates?” The stranger wraps an arm around his waist and pulls him close in support, starting them off into the night.

“My—my hat, where’s—” Peter’s head is swimming, he needs his hat, his skull feels like it’s going to burst.

“Don’t worry about your hat, you can always get it tomorrow. Roommates?”

“No, I—but Ned, where’s…” he loses his train of thought. “Wait, what—day is it?”

“It’s Christmas Eve, and what a gift you are.”

“What? I—gotta go home, gotta… What’s…?”

They’re in Peter’s suite, empty now with all the others home for the holidays. “Which one’s yours?”

Peter’s finding it hard to stand up. “I—water, I need—”

“Which one’s _yours_ , huh?” the stranger growls.

“It’s—it’s D, but I need—”

“’Course it’s D, a body like that. C’mon.”

“Where’s—”

“Doesn’t matter. Let’s get these off you,” he continues, ignoring Peter almost completely except to maneuver him, pulling at his coat and shoes. Then he pulls at his shirt, and Peter, confused, goes along with it.

Then he pulls at his pants, and Peter’s vision sharpens.

“Hey, what are you—?”

“Don’t worry about it, just relax, alright? I’ll take good care of you.”

“I don’t want you to take—”

“Just,” it’s punctuated by a yawn, “Just relax, I... I’ll do all the…” the stranger collapses on Peter’s partially-undressed lap, snoring. A wave of drowsiness pours over Peter as well, lead weights on his eyelids, the world spinning for more reason than one.

Ignoring his situation, the man on top of him, his half-dressed state, Peter fumbles for the syringe in his pocket, but can’t seem to get a firm grasp. It clatters to the floor, and he feels tears filling his eyes at the thought of missing Tony, of waiting another _fucking_ year to talk to him, to feel him, to _fuck him_ because of Ned and MJ and that _fucking_ party. _No…_

He feels himself fall back to his mattress, helpless, and hears an echo of the window crashing open, a roar. A glimpse of chrome and dark eyes, a furrowed brow that quickly turns away.

“… _Tony…?_ ”

Peter’s eyes flutter shut, and he sleeps.


	5. Interlude: Christmas Eve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony has no idea how old he is, and he's come for another visit at what seems to be an inopportune time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick interlude from Tony's POV. 
> 
> This one was a fair bit shorter & therefore quicker than the rest; it'll likely be a few days before the last chapter comes out ❤️
> 
> Oh! Also, CW for some violence. Nothing too-too explicit, but it is against an unconscious person, so there's that. More detailed CW in the end notes.

Peter is twenty and Tony is starting to believe that he’ll be on the _List_ forever, that he doesn’t need to worry as he has these past few not-years. There were no _clear_ consequences for taking the _List_ out of order last time except inefficiency, so he doesn’t waste a single moment redirecting his suit from its programmed path.

His breath is heavy, tears in his eyes at the thought of _Peter_ , who will be waiting so beautifully for him. Will he have filled out? Moved to another room, maybe out of the dorms to an off-campus place? Moving in with… with a significant other, perhaps.

His blood boils at the thought, however he tries to tamp it down. Peter is perfect, how dare _anyone_ think they are _worthy_ of him, of his touch. God, his touch… Tony is hard just thinking about him, his cock straining futilely against unyielding titanium alloy. He can’t _wait_ to see him again, relaxed on his pillow, peaceful, sweet lips open in invitation, waiting to be kissed, to be lovingly undressed, chestnut curls waiting to be pulled and mussed, smooth skin waiting to be marked.

The suit speeds up.

\--

Peter’s window is closed, of course, it’s December in Boston, freezing as always. Tony barely slows his approach as he slams it open, his control over the force he’s imparting severely compromised by his eagerness to see the one light in the past however many years he’s been alive.

His breath catches in his throat. Peter, falling back, mostly undressed, meets his eyes before they flutter shut. They’re brown, and warm, and look like honey and molasses taste. His eyes are _brown_.

He says his name in a voice just this side of hoarse, soft, pouring from his perfect lips, and Tony shudders with pleasure at the thought of him moaning Tony’s name in that _voice_ as Tony pushes into him.

But Peter was awake when he got here, awake enough to meet his eyes, to say his _name_.

How… how does even know his…?

Then he looks further down and _sees_ **_red_**.

Is… is this the _ingrate_ , the _shit under his heel_ that Peter has been seeing, that—that left those marks last year? As if he’s not already claimed, it doesn’t matter that they couldn’t have known they _should have known_ , and this worthless _scum_ thinks he’s worthy of Peter?

Sound drops out and Tony only hears the high-pitched ringing of technology as his breaths get shallower and quicker, his heart speeds up. There is the muffled sound of a roar in the distance until Tony realizes it’s his own, his jaw tight and fingers curling into claws without his wherewithal, every inch of him taut with contained fury. Peter is his, _his his **his**_.

 ** _“How dare you_**.”

All at once, Tony leaps forward out of his suit, ripping his hands across the unconscious man off of his perfect, _Nice_ Peter. The quick motion throws him to the floor, tearing his thin shirt and bits of skin underneath, leaving pinpricks of red blooming in the fabric.

One hand takes the man’s collar, bunches it up and presses it down into his chest, into his throat as the other cracks his nose, bludgeons his eye, makes him _bleed_ for his sins. “Peter is a _Nice_ person, he deserves better than you, better than me, better than—”

Tony doesn’t stop until his knuckles are bloody in turn, split skin sluggishly leaking into the mess he’s made of the man, the—the _bastard_. The fucking interloper’s breath comes in wheezes and whistles, a broken his nose at least, perhaps also his cheek, no less than he deserves. Blood and spittle and a single tooth litter his torn shirt, stained now with more than just spilled alcohol as Tony gets a hold on himself.

He knees the man’s gut has he stands up. Peter is _his_ and nobody else’s. Tony spits on the man on the ground, grinding his heel into his sternum, hearing his breaths come shallower and shallower with vindictive glee as he adds weight until he hears a soft sigh from behind him.

Peter.

Right, of course, Tony shakes his head, quickly stepping over to Peter. He doesn’t bother putting that man in recovery position. If he dies, it’s no less than he deserves for defiling Peter.

Peter is the priority, always, always, always, _always_.

“What is it you need, my love, my dearest?” he murmurs sweetly, brushing Peter’s soft, gorgeous curls, cold with old sweat and the still-open window, from his face. “Anything at all, everything, let me give you the world on a platter, I can’t—”

A pause. That’s it. A glance to the body, prone beneath them. That’s _it_.

Not again. Never again, he will _never_ leave Peter to—to _this_ , not when he deserves _everything_ Tony is able to give him.

He can just… Peter will… Peter will come with him. No need to have _enough_ now, not if he can have Peter all the time, all the time, he was—he was almost awake when he arrived tonight, maybe he’ll build up a tolerance and wake with time, he—yes, Tony thinks to himself.

“ _Yes,_ ” he breathes aloud.

A flurry of motion ensues as Tony takes the ragged backpack hanging off the back of Peter’s desk chair and begins stuffing it with anything and everything that Peter might want from the room, his laptop, those contraptions hidden in the compartment, his phone, clothes.

Tony often forgets, now after so many years, that most bags don’t expand to fit whatever they need to contain, and quickly runs out of space. He begins dumping belongings into his gift sack, already full to the brim but its inherent magic expanding to fit.

He dresses Peter as best he can with the clothing lying on the floor, smelling sweetly of alcohol and regret, so like he used to, and his hands slow. Would there be anyone looking for Peter, after this? Friends, family? A dry chuckle says what he already knows: of course there will be. A beautiful gem like Peter disappearing? There’ll be a nationwide manhunt.

…Did anyone look for him when he disappeared?

Could he really take him from this place, where everyone he knows is? Where his boyfriend—Tony winces as he realizes what he’s done. A glance at the man shows he’s still breathing, but his face has already swollen from the beating he’d delivered, still wheezing. He’d assaulted Peter’s boyfriend. _Shit_.

They were probably coming home from a party like he’d not gone to in college, getting frisky when… when Tony arrived like a winter storm and tore them apart. And he’s going to tear them apart again.

Tony is a selfish man, he knows it well. He doesn’t deserve Peter but now that the thought is in his mind, now that it’s a _possibility_ , it is not going away. And neither is Peter. He pulls him in for a bruising kiss, pouring his devotion and passion into it as best he can, enough to penetrate to his dreams, he hopes. “Later, my love, we’ll have all the time in the world.”

Now, how to do the rest of his rounds with Peter? His suit can’t accommodate him, and he needs shelter from the winds and the cold. He’s only human, for now.

Tony figures it out. He is a genius, after all.

He spits on Peter’s worthless boyfriend on the way out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Beating an unconscious person bloody, including asphyxiation. Ambiguous fate.


	6. Twenty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter is twenty when he wakes up. And he wakes up. And he wakes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little late, but a little longer too, and hopefully worth the wait. And it's the porn chapter!
> 
> Enjoy! ❤️

Peter is twenty when he wakes up. There’s a whistling and a faint sense there might be wind nearby, and something sharp is digging into his back, crinkling. He falls back asleep.

-

Peter is twenty when he wakes up. It’s dim and warm and cozy under a thick, plush duvet as he curls up into a ball. He falls back asleep.

-

Peter is twenty when he wakes up.

-

Peter is twenty when he wakes up.

-

Peter is twenty when he wakes up, bleary-eyed, and finally manages to stay awake. It takes two tries for him to sit up, and even then it’s as if through molasses, his mind thick with the feeling of pine sap and peppermint. His hand reaches beside him, mindlessly searching for his phone, and finds it laying on a smooth, pale-finished bedside table. When did he get a new one?

His phone is off, which is weird; he doesn’t remember the last time he turned it off. It had died occasionally, but never on purpose.

A press of the power button reveals it’s nearly dead. 6:13 in the morning, too…

Peter yawns, knowing he’d gone to bed late last night, after—after… after the party. Ugh; if he drank half as much as he thinks he did, it’s a wonder he woke up this early. His memory is undeniably fuzzy, and he’s not entirely sure how he got where he is. He remembers…. What does he remember?

He remembers Ned and MJ dragging him off, of course. Remembers stealing a few drinks, dancing and screaming along to music, he remembers… someone. Someone helping him back and then—

Abruptly, the fog clears, though he still feels slow, unwieldy. Must be a hangover. Where is he? Did that… he gulps. Did that man take him here? He lifts up the quilt; he’s naked in an unfamiliar bed, with unfamiliar sheets and furniture, a fire crackling merrily in an unfamiliar stone hearth across the room. Did he kidnap him? He doesn’t even _know_ the guy, at least he _thinks_. Everything is a bit blurry, still.

Another glance at his phone; out of range, and—and something must be wrong with the clock. There is zero chance it’s February 1st, he’d’ve starved or—or died of dehydration before that. Peter is intimately familiar with drugs that can knock him out, and he doesn’t have any of their symptoms, nor are there any injections points along his arms.

A thrill of hope bubbles through him at the thought of time being wonky, but he’s no fool, even when he definitely is. Chances are, he’s been kidnapped, though in his civilian identity this time. He has no injection points, but there are _definitely_ new marks. Peter’s jaw clenches. If that bastard took advantage of him… Well, what’s done is done, he’ll… he’ll deal with that later. _Later_.

Actually— _shit_. Even if his phone, now fully dead, is wrong, it’s clearly been hours he’s slept, given how rested he feels. He’d missed his chance. Again. Of course he did, he missed the chance to, to…

A deep breath. Peter has time. There is always next year, all he needs to do is get through another fucking _year_ without him, with just his imagination and his hand.

And, he grimaces, no more parties.

Well, there’s nothing to be done now but move forward. Peter finally swings his bare legs over the edge of the bed, flinching at the cold stone flooring beneath his feet and at the easy slide he feels between his thighs, and pulls himself tentatively upright. He’s more unsteady on his feet than he’d like, certainly, but should be functional if push comes to shove; if nothing else, he’s still significantly stronger than the average person.

Padding to the dresser, his toes digging into a thick bearskin rug, he opens the first drawer to see if there are clothes he can borrow, but—he opens the second, and the third, pulling out all-too-familiar fabric. _His_ clothes.

He pulls on his undergarments and thick leggings, scratchy woolen socks and a cable-knit sweater; no need to be disoriented _and_ cold, and not being _naked_ in an unfamiliar location helps considerably, no matter how merrily the fire crackles. Even if he _still_ doesn’t know what’s been done to him.

The rest of the drawers in the dresser are much the same; the desk in the corner has his laptop and papers, the bedside table has—has his webshooters! He heaves a sigh of relief as he straps them on, feeling _significantly_ more secure. Clearly his captors have no idea who they’re dealing with, or they’re dumb as hell. Probably both, if this is the sort of place they keep him in.

He supposes it’s possible whoever brought him here is a rescuer from previous kidnapping, but that seems unlikely. Good things don’t tend to happen to him. It would explain the lack of restraints, if nothing else.

First things first: now that he’s dressed and equipped as best he can reasonably expect, the door. Very americana, just like everything seems to be, a warm brass handle curving gently out of the hewn wood. He twists it gently, testing, and is shocked when he hears a _click_. It isn’t even locked.

The chances of him being a captive are decreasing by the minute. How nice for him.

The door opens into a general living space, so it seems, with windows lining the walls and a couple of other doors. What windows there are have dark, heavy drapes covering them; a quick peek behind one set shows nothing but white. False exits, then.

There is another hearth here, though it is running low on wood. Sparks shoot out as a log collapses, and Peter automatically tosses in another log from the pile nearby, pushing it into place with the decoratively twisted iron poker. He keeps the poker.

Around the corner, the wooden walls and floor change to tile. The kitchen, he presumes. Peter leans the poker, his only weapon at the moment other than himself, against the cabinets and opens the discordantly modern refrigerator holding all manner of vegetables, some milk and eggs. Nothing prepared. Some searching through the cabinets reveals cereals and beans, dried herbs and spices and honey, onions and potatoes, a large number of unlabeled canned goods, and quite a bit of unidentified jerky.

It isn’t until he sees the food that Peter realizes how _ravenous_ he is. He finishes half the jerky and part of the uncooked oats; it isn’t until he takes a bite out of a raw onion as if it were an apple that Peter realizes what he’s done and slows down, choking down the rest of it before going through the stock more methodically, only taking a little from each of the remaining things possible to eat raw. He never did like wasting food, and the onion was on him.

His stomach is heavy and seems upset with him, but he keeps it down. His mind is still underwater. _Water_ …

The sink works, sputtering only a little before letting forth the sweetest, softest water Peter has ever tasted, bar none. With the setup here with the fireplaces, the taste and temperature of the water… perhaps the windows weren’t fake. It wouldn’t be unheard of for Boston, or more likely somewhere outside of Boston given the architecture, to get pretty massive snows this time of year. Though… surely, being enough to cover windows, Peter would’ve heard about a storm this big, not to mention his friends wouldn’t have dragged him out in person if there was a risk like this.

He feels a twist of unease in his gut, though perhaps that’s the food making itself known again. He _had_ eaten like a starving man, goodness knows that’s a terrible idea if… if he hadn’t eaten in quite a while.

Peter picks up the poker and wishes he had his mask, moving to investigate the first proper door in line other than the one he’d entered from.

It opens to a wall of snow, small sections hollowed out and containing—he pulls out a bottle—brandy? He pulls another, whiskey. Another, vodka. He replaces them and closes the door. Well, at least that answered the question about the windows. Still no proper exits, though; still no idea where he is.

The second door leads to a bathroom, complete with a claw-foot tub and shower attachment. The sink is scattered with dark hair, the soap a bar of oat and milk, coarse and soft in turn.

The third is another room, identical to his own in almost every way. The fire isn’t burning in the hearth, nor has it been for a while; the dresser is open and nearly empty. Peter opens the bedside table and immediately closes it with a flush. The desk… the desk holds several papers covered in chicken scratch, small notations in the margins, seemingly random. Peter recognizes this handwriting, however changed it is over time. He’d been translating this all year, he muses. Wait.

Peter’s eyes dilate, his palm slips on the poker, but he redoubles his grasp. It’s hard for his mind to make connections still, but if this is…

There is one more door, and Peter thinks he knows what he will find.

\--

Tony has no idea what he was thinking. He… he has no idea how to care for the man, if he even needs to or whether the enchantments on the house will preserve him, too, whether sleep magic is stasis or merely sleep, whether he’ll need to set up something or—

The first few days make it clear that Peter is in stasis, not merely sleep; or, rather, that he is between the two; magic so rarely makes sense. It is as if he were merely sleeping, yet his lips do not grow more chapped, nor does he lose weight; but when Tony comes to him at night, he sighs so sweetly, writhes on his fingers and tongue, Peter’s come painting Tony’s face, his chest, his hips.

Tony has no idea what he was thinking. What, that just bringing him here to the Workshop will wake him up? He could have ruined everything with his greed, if Tony has to take him back next year he’ll _die_ he swears it, he’ll find a way around the curse and manage it, or maybe he’ll entrap some foolish young idealist like he’d been trapped.

He never wanted Peter to be trapped with him. Not really. Well, kind of. He wanted to be with Peter, regardless of the consequences, and now he has a sleeping beauty, a snow white in a glass casket, beautiful to look at, luscious to the touch, but barely more _alive_ than a portait.

Not that that stops Tony from visiting Peter, perfect, _Nice_ Peter, at night. Well, before sleep; as with everything nowadays, day and night don’t mean much, here.

Tony has no idea what he was thinking. Having Peter here, having _seen_ the light in those gorgeous eyes, having heard his name slip from those perfect lips, is nearly more torture than not seeing him at all. Nearly.

He turns off the welder and leans back with a sigh, pulling up his facemask and rubbing at his eyes. He’s been at this for too long. Normally, he’d be able to go for much longer—probably, again the time thing, his watch is mostly worn out of habit and sentiment—but knowing Peter is _so close_ …

Tony is a weak man, a greedy man, and he knows he will go to Peter tonight, as he does nearly every night. Just a little more… he flips the mask back down and heaves a sigh. There is always so much work to do.

He’s leaning forward to turn the machine back on when he hears behind him, in a scratchy voice hoarse from disuse, “…Tony?”

\--

The last door swings open with nary a creak. Behind it is an eclectic mixture of incredibly cutting edge and oddly old technology, chisels and whittling knives sitting next to strangely boxy sensor arrays, gigantic environmental chambers and a data center clicking away in the back corner. In the middle of it all, a man holding a welding torch, mask down and leaning towards a switch, or perhaps a dial.

“…Tony? Is that…?” The figure pauses, turning to face him in clear shock, flipping up the mask to meet his eyes with bewilderment. Peter takes a moment to drink him in, letting the iron poker clatter to the stone floor. Photographs did Tony Stark no justice at all. His jawline, hewn with his facial hair so meticulously carved; his arms, coated in a fine sheen of sweat from his work, lightly burned and _very_ defined; his eyes… oh, his eyes, confused but so, so hopeful as Peter takes a few steps toward him.

“Peter!” he exclaims, “Peter, how are you…?”

 _“Finally,_ ” the younger man cries, his steps eating up the space between the two of them faster and faster. Tony, seeing what he’s about to do, drops his tools, bracing himself. Peter leaps to close those last few feet, arms flinging themselves around Tony’s neck and mashing their faces together desperately.

Their teeth clack and lips bruise with the force behind it. Peter threads his fingers into Tony’s thick hair, gripping it tightly and letting out a moan as he repositions them both. Tony gasps as he yanks at his hair, and Peter takes it as an opportunity to thrust his tongue into Tony’s mouth with abandon.

Tony, confused as all hell, meets him with equal vigor, biting at his lips and pawing at Peter, alive and _awake_ and _kissing him_ , and Tony isn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Peter pulls at his hair again, mouthing along his throat and grinding against his thigh and lets out the most delicious moan he’s ever heard in his life.

“Fuck, Peter—Peter how are you even—"

“ _Tony_ ,” he replies in that honey-sweet voice between kisses, “Tony, is this a dream? You’re…”

“If it’s a dream, it’s mine, sweetheart. How are you— _ah—_ awake? It’s been—” he lets out a groan of disappointment when Peter stops his ministrations.

“I’m not sure I am. Awake, I mean. It’s like—like there’s a layer of chiffon between me and everything else, like it’s all so unreal,” he sighs. “And you’re here.” Peter pulls Tony forward again for a deep, slow, aching kiss before breaking it off and resting his head on Tony’s shoulder. “You’re _here_.”

A moment passes, then two as they catch their breath. “And I’m… here,” Peter continues haltingly. “Where is here, exactly? Is it—” he swallows. “What happened? I thought I’d missed you again.”

“Again?”

“I have—had?—a security camera, I saw… I saw you. Last year. And the year before, when—”

“When I… assaulted you.” Tony takes a step back, though Peter doesn’t let go of where he’s gripping his shirt.

“No! I mean, yes, technically, but,” Peter blushes, “I didn’t mind. Once I got over the shock, I mean. I… I left a note for you last year, in the compartment in the bedframe, but you… didn’t look.”

Tony looks at the man before him, distraught and jubilant at once. Peter, gorgeous, young, _beautiful_ Peter tried to contact him. _Him_ , a—a fuck-up of literally legendary proportions, _way_ older than he is, who… who could have had Peter a _year ago_.

But… “What about your boyfriend?” He grimaces at the thought of the condition he’d left him in. He’ll tell Peter if he asks, and can only hope he’ll still be okay afterwards. The thought of Peter awake _terrified_ him, even as he continues to cling to him now, caressing every inch of skin showing, even as he revels in the warm body pressed against him _voluntarily_. It means that, just as he is choosing to lean into the contact now, he can and likely _will_ choose to reject it. Peter awake, there with him, but choosing to avoid him in this cramped home of his, cut off as they are from the normal world—it would be torture.

Peter looks up at him, a cute crease between his brows. “…Boyfriend?”

“When I… picked you up, you were, ah, _having a moment_. I—” Tony braces himself, “I may have reacted badly, to say the least. You’re… you’re _mine,_ Peter.” A possessive glint enters his gaze, a hand coming up to pet at Peter’s soft hair.

“Mine…” Peter repeats dreamily. “You’re mine too, Tony.” He frowns when a little more of that veil of languid unreality lifts, but continues with another deep kiss. “I don’t have a boyfriend, and I didn’t want what was happening. I don’t even know the guy’s name. You _saved_ me, darling.”

It sinks in, and a weight lifts off of Tony’s shoulders. He grasps the nape of Peter’s neck with one hand and around his waist with the other, pressing him close, ecstatic. “Then I should have beaten him harder, sweet thing,” he growls out, and Peter shivers against him, eyes dilating, face steadily flushing.

God, he’s just so _alive._

“You beat him? For me?” Peter breathes.

“Peter, I should have _killed him_ for what he tried to do to you.”

The air, however chilled from the storm forever raging outside, seems to heat up between the two of them, just looking at each other, waiting, until it ignites in a flash.

Suddenly, Peter wraps his arms around Tony, picking him up and practically throwing him onto the workbench beside them, instantly on hands and knees above him, kissing every inch of skin he sees. The older man makes a token protest, but Peter presses him down with a, “You had your fun, didn’t you, Tony? Hm?” A wordless nod. “Let me have mine, let me…”

“Yes, anything, anything you want.”

Peter is working at the other’s clothing, trying to make it sexy but clearly desperate for more contact. “I know what you did at the dorm, Tony, but I’ve been here… I don’t know how long,” he says as he manages to remove Tony’s apron, untucking his shirt and mouthing at the strip of skin revealed. “Tell me… tell me what fun you’ve been having with me, without me.” His belt slides free and to the cold floor with a clack.

“Fuck, Peter, I—” Tony’s breath catches as Peter reaches into his pants to grip his cock, already hard and leaking with desire, releasing it from its confines. He licks up a stripe along the side, intent on his prize.

“I know you fucked my thighs. Have you fucked me yet, Tony?” He takes the head into his mouth, just barely sucking but burning all the same for someone who hasn’t had any mutual contact in decades, a wave of fire up his spine warming him from within, euphoric torture that Peter lingers there. His hands come up to rest on his head but Peter’s hands are manacles pinning him to the frigid table, helpless but to receive, the heat above and chill below sending him spiralling deeper into arousal.

“I—Peter, I—God, tell me I can touch you.”

Peter swallows him briefly down and comes back up; Tony head jerks back with a strangled moan, the impact against the bench echoing against the workshop walls. “Tell me and I might let you.”

“I haven’t, not yet. I—” Peter swallows him again, nose lingering in his dark thatch of curls as his throat massages his cock and that incredible warmth is going to _make him_ —then Peter backs off again. “Fuck, I wanted to, _want_ to _so badly_ , but I couldn’t,” he gasps out, “I, I saw you awake when I—so I just— _fuck_ —hoped you’d manage to wake up, that you’d acclimate to the magic or, or that _I don’t fucking know_ but I wanted— _ah_ —wanted our first time to be together, _really_ together, to look into those gorgeous fucking doe eyes of yours as I—I know how you _taste_ , sweetheart, I don’t— _please_ let me touch you,” he pleads, wrecked from the day he chose to break that invisible barrier between him and Peter all those years ago.

In response, Peter pulls off entirely, a string of saliva connecting his pink tongue to the cock that apparently hasn’t yet fucked him, and oh how he _wants_. The thread breaks.

“Tell me you have lube in here,” he responds instead, chest heaving.

“Oil, coolant, but there’s—there’s proper lube in the, ah, the bedroom, across—” he says, breaking off when Peter bites harshly at a nipple through his shirt, dragging himself up for another bruising kiss, grinding against Tony’s erection with his own.

“Then take me there _. Now._ ”

Tony is more than happy to oblige. Peter releases him and he quickly moves, grasping and lifting the younger man’s ass with a gentle squeeze—and what an ass it is—as Peter wraps his legs around his waist, clinging shamelessly. He steps carefully over the poker still on the floor, through the living space, biting his lip to suppress the moans lingering in his throat.

Every step Peter grinds against him, mouths at his throat, pushes his shirt up and rubs against him is a temptation to stop and just rut against the beautiful man in his arms until they come and damn it all. But Peter wants the bedroom, wants lube, wants—if Tony isn’t misreading this— _Tony_ to fuck him, and he is in _no way_ going to dissuade him, not with how much he longs for it himself.

He is, after all, a selfish man.

The door is ajar to the room in which Peter first woke. Tony pushes it fully open, the fire just starting to wane. Just a few long steps eat up the rest of the distance to the bed, sheets still mussed, where he almost-gently lays the other down.

Bemused, Peter comments, “I figured we’d be going to your room, not this one,” as he holds onto Tony’s shirt as he stands up, pulling it over his head.

“…I haven’t been able to sleep alone, not since I brought you here.” Tony caresses his cheek for a moment before turning to the bedside table and finally grabbing the fucking lube, coating one thick finger liberally as Peter quickly strips, haphazardly tossing the clothing towards the dresser. Tony turns back to Peter’s strong thighs falling open, his hands lightly stroking his already-hard length, and feels his mind go blissfully blank for a heartbeat.

“I… couldn’t… not when I knew, I _knew_ you might wake up. I haven’t fucked you yet, but, when… when I would do things like _this—_ ”

Peter moans unrestrainedly when Tony presses that first finger into his ass straight to the knuckle, starting up a slow rhythm. “And when you made pretty sounds like _that_ ,” Tony continues, breathless. He’s so much louder, so much _more_ when the man is moving like that, wiggling his hips to take him deeper. “I could almost imagine you were here with me.”

“How many times, Tony?” Peter asks, trying fruitlessly to get more stimulation. “Fuck it, doesn’t matter, you need to make it up to me. I need more, Tony, give me _more_ ,” he whines, and Tony obliges him, adding a second, practically fucking Peter with his fingers when his hair is in Peter’s grasp again and he feels himself yanked up to another bruising mashing of their mouths, messy and wet and gasping. “Fuck me already, Tony, I need your cock in me _now_ ,” he growls.

“You’re not ready yet, Pete.”

“I can _take it_ , Tony—”

“I don’t want to hurt—”

In a whirl of motion, Tony finds himself on his back, the brush of Peter’s thigh against his jeans reminds him how painfully overdressed he is until he feels Peter’s hands tearing his jeans off. Literally, he’s fairly sure he heard a seam or two ripping, but then there’s _Peter_ and he decides he doesn’t care. Peter, sharing his breath, Peter, hands slicking him up, Peter, lowering himself forcefully onto Tony, taking and taking and _taking_.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Tony chokes out, his eyes losing focus for a moment. So _fucking_ tight, he knew Pete wasn’t ready but Jesus _Christ_ does he feel like—Tony doesn’t know, every thought he’d ever had about Peter could never have lived up to the incredible pressure surrounding him, slick around him but so, _so_ tight. “Nng,” he continues eloquently.

“I said,” Peter gasps out, “I can take it.” He punctuates this with his hips slamming home, setting a frankly ludicrous pace and Tony can barely breathe, his hands touching everywhere and not enough. He tries to sit up, to embrace Peter, but he’s pushed back down by the other’s deceptively strong hands pinning his shoulders and _god_ that feels good. Fine then, Tony reaches out and grasps those delicious hips as they move and Tony knows there’s no way he’s going to last long.

Peter leans in again, his lips just grazing Tony’s, and whispers, “ _Mine_ ,” biting Tony’s lower lip hard enough to draw blood, not once pausing or hesitating his motions.

Tony’s eyes, already dark with want, dilate further. “Yours,” he responds, possessive. His fingertips curl into Peter’s hips, his nails leaving crescent moons on Peter’s skin, as he begins to meet Peter thrust for thrust, skin slapping against skin, sweat building along his back as he fucks up into Peter with all his strength.

When he tries to sit up this time, Peter lets him, running his fingers through Tony’s hair and moaning. Tony runs his teeth roughly over Peter’s throat, his collar, his chest, leaving bites and just barely not breaking skin, bringing one hand down to run his fingers along where the two of them are joined, feeling the warm pulsing rim as he pushes in and in and in. “ _Tony…_ "

Just the thought of Peter taking him like this, taking his cock so beautifully, so eagerly, so _Nicely_ , gorgeous above him, his face screwed up as he takes his pleasure on Tony sends a jolt of arousal up his spine. “Peter, fuck, you’re so—” He can feel himself starting to tighten up and curses internally, reaching between the two of them to grab haphazardly at Peter, jerking roughly even as his hips begin to stutter. “Look at me, Peter,” he demands, and Peter’s lashes flutter open, his gaze hazy but obedient.

One stroke, two and Peter is spilling hot stripes of come between them, “ _Tony…_ ” The look of ecstasy on his face, his greedy ass contracting rhythmically around Tony finally sends him over the edge as well into that sweet, perfect heat. Their hips begin to slow, Peter lowering himself still undulating on Tony’s softening cock as he wrings the last few drops of pleasure from them both, slowly bringing them to a stop.

Peter starts to slip off, but Tony pulls him back down with a growl, instead gently nudging him down to lay on his chest, still joined together. Tony is sweaty, they’re both covered in Peter’s come, but Peter doesn’t seem to mind, laying his head down and carding his fingers through the curls on Tony’s chest.

They lay there for a while, Tony’s never sure how long and this time is no exception, just… touching. Tony runs his fingers through Peter’s hair, along his ribs, presses kisses into his arms and forehead and cheeks and pink lips that so recently parted for him. Peter does the same, lightly tugging at his hair, caressing the muscles of his arms, kissing each finger on his right hand, both just soaking in the other, reveling in their connection, that they’re finally, _finally_ here, together.

“You know,” Peter begins, “my head’s finally cleared up.”

Tony shifts to meet his eyes with a slight frown. “What do you mean?”

The younger man moves up to his elbows. “Well, when I woke up, I could barely think, barely managed to make it to you. Thought I was drugged or something, but it wasn’t anything I recognized.”

Tony twirls a lock of Peter’s hair thoughtfully. “When’d it…?”

“Started clearing up right when… hm.”

“Peter?”

“It first started going away when we claimed each other for the first time, and it cleared up entirely when, ah… when we came. Together.” A flush speeds across his face and down his neck. “Which, now that I think about it, sounds kind of like…”

“Like what, darling?”

“Like a… a wedding. If you distill it down.”

Tony starts, but when he thinks about it... “… _Oh_.”

“It—it doesn’t have to be, of course! Just a, a silly thought, I know you’d never—”

“ _Oh_ ,” Tony breathes out. “Oh Peter, wonderful, brilliant Peter, you’re mine now,” he croons, tentatively grinding up where he still feels Peter. “You’re past the threshold, you’ve—you managed to…”

“What?”

“You’re my Mrs. Claus, now.”

“What, like—”

“Yeah. If you want to be, at least, there might be a way to undo it,” they both recoil at the thought, but Tony needs to let Peter know there’s another option, even if it’d kill him to do. “If you want.”

Peter’s arms straighten until he’s sitting upright again. His hands creep up Tony’s chest to caress his neck and jaw. “Tony, if I haven’t made it _extremely_ clear,” he punctuates that with a slow motion of his hips, “I want to be yours. I want you to be mine. Being your Mrs. Claus would be…” His breath shudders, his eyes close, his hips continue that lovely, slow, hesitant pattern that’s brought Tony back to half-mast inside of him, and he can see Peter’s not far behind. “It would be _wonderful_. Though I must say I’d prefer Mr. Stark,” Peter purrs.

“Mr. Stark,” Tony says, breathless.

“Mr. Stark,” he returns. “So we’re on our honeymoon, then.”

“I mean, time doesn’t quite—”

“It wasn’t a question,” Peter says before rolling them over.

It is a very long while before they leave the bed.

It’s a good thing time is more flexible at the Workshop.

“Holy _shit_ you’re flexible, Peter!”

And Peter Stark, of course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm extremely happy, as this is my first completed multi-chapter fic.
> 
> I know there's some lore that is present that might not be 100% explained, but hopefully it's not too confusing. If you have questions, feel free to ask in the comments, and I'll likely do some shorter one-shots in this universe at some point to elaborate. This is what I get for trying to do PWP. Trying to create a vaguely-coherent magic system.
> 
> Either way, thank you so much for reading through the end. Happy belated holidays, and remember... be _Nice_ 😉

**Author's Note:**

> If you like, feel free to join the MCU thirst [Discord server](https://discord.gg/6wFsB2f) that hosted the event this piece is based on! ❤️


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